The warehouse was a place where the world went to forget.
It sat at the edge of a dead road, choked by weeds and strangled ivy, hemmed in by chain-link fences that had long since given up on keepin g anyone out. Its roof sagged, heavy with rust and time, and the broken sign above the main loading door bore only three legible letters: "C—O—R".
Inside, time had slowed to a crawl.
Pillars of dust swayed gently through the sun-shafts leaking in from above—sunlight fractured through shattered panes of glass in the ceiling, casting a kaleidoscope of dull gold and rust-red onto the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of old grease, cardboard rot, and forgotten sweat. Somewhere high in the iron skeleton of the ceiling, pigeons cooed and shuffled, unsettled.
